


Glazed

by sharklotte



Series: Pastries and Boys (and other sweet things) [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Best Friends, Boyfriends, Boys Kissing, Couch Cuddles, Cute, Domestic Fluff, Donuts, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Funny, Humor, I mean really, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Mornings, Online Relationship, Self-Indulgent, Sleepy Cuddles, Slice of Life, Slight Angst (if you squint), Soft Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Soft GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Sweet, They go way back, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but also boyfriends, but like previously, george does not wear his own wardrobe, i shouldn't even tag angst honestly, is this enough tags? im new here, perhaps this could be a series, sexual humor?, they love each other a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29415315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharklotte/pseuds/sharklotte
Summary: “Shh,” George replies expertly, before throwing his left arm over Clay’s other shoulder and pushing himself practically on top of him, nudging his minty head back into the crook of the blonde’s neck.What they have now is real life. Real to the ear, through early-morning whispers and late-night giggles. Real to see, with watching George slip on some random part of Clay’s wardrobe, and witnessing his beaming face when he realizes he’s been caught. And real to the touch, to actually feel each other. To always know how soft George's skin is, and what his lips feel like crushed against his own, and other… rather unspeakable...things.Clay stops thinking about that, right there. Yep. Let’s stop right there.----------------Or, two boys love each other very very much. And, somehow, donuts are thoroughly incorporated.IDK MAN THIS IS COMPLETELY SELF-INDULGENT
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Pastries and Boys (and other sweet things) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2160900
Comments: 24
Kudos: 301





	Glazed

On December something-teenth-- an underwhelming Tuesday-- Clay wakes up to gentle sunlight dappling his puffy gray-ish comforter, a seemingly distressed Patches (who is very focused on clawing his knee out), and a soft, sleeping person clad in nothing but a giant AC/DC crewneck and boxers, clinging to his bicep, his face buried in the warm space between the blonde’s jaw and shoulder.

Strangely enough, even as Clay’s obtrusive phone informs him that he only has about half an hour to get to his first lecture in a somewhat presentable state, and his shoulder is getting numb, and he’s kind of cold, he decides that it’s a good morning.

Well, _almost_ \--- first, he has to push his cat away, shooting her a sappy, mockingly sympathetic expression as she practically rolls off the bed and dramatically whirls around, looking about as offended as an animal can look. For some reason-- maybe it’s because he feels mean laughing-- after all, cats are people too-- he feels the need to hide his satisfied smirk from her.

His sleeping boyfriend’s mop of dark hair is the thing he decides to bury his smug smile in, and he doesn’t regret it in the slightest when he’s blessed with the sweet aroma of spearmint shampoo filling his nose. George had recently discovered the little aisle in Walmart that holds the all-natural, vegan soaps that only rich people and stoners buy-- and while Clay did not approve at first, when George came home with a sheepish look on his face, eight bars of Eucalyptus-Mint Oasis body soap, and a receipt of around $125-- he _definitely_ isn’t complaining now. The brunet always seems to smell good, even if he hasn’t showered in a concerning amount of time, because that natural, expensive, vegan hippie soap _sticks_ to a person like nothing else.

Clay’s efforts to relocate his cat seem to have disturbed the boy attached to his shoulder, because he shifts slightly, turning himself even further onto the blonde in a (cruelly) effective attempt to still him, and breathes deeply.

“Sorry,” Clay whispers, amused, but kind of guilty. He knows that George had been up nearly all night coding something for his midterm project that was quickly approaching its due date, and he had been woken after only about four hours of sleep. His boyfriend didn’t slack off, but his study habits could certainly be improved-- his go-to strategy was ‘live in the moment (put off important work) and take care of it later (four days, max, before it’s due)’. Clay had tried countless times to teach him time management and how to space the projects out in healthy increments, but his words seemed to have breezed right past the boy’s head.

Take Exhibit A: It’s 8am, on a Tuesday, and George hasn’t even completed his first REM cycle.

“ _Shh_ ,” George replies expertly, before throwing his left arm over Clay’s other shoulder and pushing himself practically on top of him, nudging his minty head back into the crook of the blonde’s neck.

So Clay has no option but to _shh_ , and brings one of his circulation-less hands to his boyfriend’s head and begins to run it through the feather-soft hair he finds there, allowing the other the rest over the small of the boy’s back. George goes boneless in his arms, and with a nearly inaudible hum, he prepares to drift back asleep in these warm, welcoming conditions.

These soft mornings were becoming increasingly more common throughout the six-or-so months that the two had been living together. Maybe it was because they loved each other to pieces, maybe it’s because the weather was rapidly dropping in temperature, or maybe it was because they had been together for _years_ before this, held just out of grasp of each other by an entire ocean. At that time, they were so close to each other that it _hurt_ how distant they actually were.  
But now, --Clay can’t help but smile as the thought intersects his previous train of thought-- their relationship isn’t just two childhood friends sexting each other over skype after finishing their college applications.  
What they have now is _real life_. Real to the ear, through early-morning whispers and late-night giggles. Real to see, with watching George slip on some random part of Clay’s wardrobe, and witnessing his beaming face when he realizes he’s been caught. And real to the touch, to actually feel each other. To always know how soft George's skin is, and what his lips feel like crushed against his own, and other… rather unspeakable...things.

Clay stops thinking about that, right there. Yep. Let’s stop right there.

What they have now is _love_. Pure, unfaltering love. Clay would go back and relive the years of endless pining and hesitant words in a moment just to feel the way he does now again in another life. He remembers the electric jolt of joy when, as the boys sat eager and twitchy on a discord call, George opened his acceptance letter to the same university as him. His memory then never fails to serve him glimpses of George, looking utterly lost in the middle of Orlando International, pacing around the baggage claim as he waited to meet the boy he had loved since middle school. And then, watching the brit’s face melt from nervousness to shock to utter and complete ecstasy as he finally looked Clay’s way...

 _God_ , Clay cannot stop smiling at his own thoughts. He’s so fucking whipped.

Very rather unfortunately, though, Clay does have class to attend at 8:30 today, and he recognizes this when his phone loudly interrupts his little memory session with six calendar notifications, all telling him to haul his ass to the bus stop. It’s almost as if Past Clay knew that by the time his early-morning class came around, he would want nothing more than to turn his phone on silent, cuddle up with his sleep-deprived boyfriend, and never move again. All of which ‘Now Clay’ is seriously considering, now that George has grabbed a fistful of his white T-shirt and hummed sleepily against his neck. (His eyebrows are furrowed in an unspoken ‘turn that loud shit off’, and Clay can just tell that if he had been awake, his expression would be the embodiment of a grumble)

But, when his phone dings yet again, two more minutes later, and this time the sweet, courteous message he wrote for himself reads ‘ _i will cut off your monster dick, you sleepy fuck_ ’, Clay knows what he must do.

Reluctantly, slowly, begrudgingly, he starts to remove himself from the brit. He gently grasps George’s forearm and lifts it, attempting to slide out of his comforting embrace.

Half-unconscious George absolutely does not agree with this.

This becomes apparent when, as the first inch of George’s skin no longer connects with his boyfriend’s, and he uses his fistful of shirt to yank him back down onto the mattress.

So, physical efforts aren’t persuasive enough, Clay decides, as he lays helpless, face up on the bed, and George practically climbs back on top of his chest. Perhaps he can bust out his verbal rhetoric skills and put his English major to use.

“G, I have a lecture.”  
“..No.”  
“I’ll be back in a few hours.”  
“No.”  
“I’ll pick up fancy coffee on my way home?”  
“...Mm…” A noise of pondering.

Clay’s almost positive he’s finally convinced him. At last, he has persuaded the man he’s been stuck with for three years, to do something.

“No,” His dumb boyfriend finishes with a miniscule shake of his head.

Clay’s seemed to have forgotten that there is absolutely no way to get George to do anything using only Words and Talking. Clay’s $11k tuition has failed him.

So, because he’s technically running late now, and his efforts to be kind have fallen short, he resorts to playing dirty. George refuses to be a good sport? Clay won’t be one either.

He softens his voice. “Hey,” He lifts his hand to George’s cheek and brushes his thumb over the boy’s pale freckles. “Look at me,”

Miraculously, the mop of brown hair turns slightly, revealing the heart-swelling sight of his boyfriend’s puffy morning face and sleepy, narrowed, chocolate eyes. Clay moves his hand down to his chin and tilts his head up ever-so-slightly, and leans down, clasping the brunet’s soft lips with his own in a gentle, sweet kiss.

George immediately melts into the loving gesture, sighing lightly, and slowly relaxes his grasp on Clay. His handful of shirt is released. At last.

But, as much as Clay adores this, (seriously, he would never stop kissing George if it was a plausible option) he’s ‘ _seriously_ ’ going to miss his bus. He makes a split-second decision to carry out the rest of his plan.  
Before the sleepy boy knows what’s happening, Clay has violently ripped himself away, clambered out of bed (nearly eating carpet in the process), and made his way halfway across the room over to his closet.

George is just laying there in the pile of blankets, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock, hand still hovering midair.  
Clay mentally prepares himself for the next events as he quickly shrugs on a green sweater and frantically packs up his school bag.

“You _DICK_ ,” George screeches (or tries his best, with his weak, raspy morning voice)

The blonde tries, out of consolation, not to laugh too obviously, but he swears George can detect his suppressed wheeze from fifteen miles away.

“You just took _advantage_ of me, this is not funny.” His boyfriend continues glaring at him in half frustration, half disbelief.

“I’m sorry, I swear it was necessary,” Clay giggles maniacally, making his way back over to the bed. He softens his voice a bit, taking on an affectionate tone, and ruffles the brunet’s fluffy hair a little. Now that George is sitting up, he has the wonderful view of his ridiculous bedhead. It seems like each one of his hairs has decided to shoot in a completely separate direction.

“Get some sleep, okay? I’ll be back soon, with donuts or something.”

George appears to surrender, but Clay assumes that it’s only because it’s so damn early and he’s probably fucking exhausted and, most likely, he does indeed want a donut.

So, Clay gives him a final peck on the cheek, mutters a ‘ _love you_ ’, and watches George close his eyes again and flop back down onto the soft mattress. He rushes to collect his keys, phone, wallet, and backpack, and leaves the bedroom to slip on his shoes.

In an impressive thirty seconds, he has his hand on the doorknob of their tiny apartment, and that is the moment when he hears the muffled, weak shout from the direction of the bedroom,

“Get me a glazed one.”

Clay smiles to himself. He simply can’t help it.

\-----------------------------------------

When the door of his apartment building comes into view, Clay’s backpack seems to get just the tiniest bit heavier, and his steps seem to slow down just a touch. His shoulders begin to sag with prefaced relief, and his eyelids start to droop. His Communications lecture was long and content-heavy, (dear _lord_ his wrist hurts) and his professor had kindly given him the overwhelming gift of a brand-spankin-new assignment to stress over, with a dangerously close due-date, and all Clay wants to do is throw down his shit and collapse into the arms of his Person.

However, courtesy of said Person, he also comes bearing a fairly large box of fresh glazed donuts from the place next to Collins Hall. So, he should probably incorporate ‘set the box down nicely prior to collapse’ into his plan. Or, maybe, they could cuddle up on the sofa, turn on some random episode of The Office, and eat them there with the box placed on their laps. Clay likes that idea a lot. Honestly, he’d take that over most things right now.

Entering the little lobby of St. Claire Suites (they’re not suites, more like glorified garden sheds), thankfully, the space is mostly empty. There’s a couple college students on the public couches and a custodian wiping down windows, but not a single person spares him a glance as he stumbles through the heavy doors and trudges to the creaky elevator.

Living in a medium sized city with a very large sized population of weird people does that to a person, he guesses. He, himself, is desensitized to the half-naked men shouting slurs on corners and the half-toothless women laying on the ground in public parks. That’s just what it’s like here. Sometimes, it’s fun to walk around and have lengthy conversations with them. His mother calls the town a hellhole, George and Clay call it home

Speaking of home, his feet have devotedly delivered him right in front of the door 112 while he was lost in thought. Clay thinks he actually tears up in joy. His wrist hurts (again, there was a lot of notes to be taken), his legs hurt, his feet hurt, and his arms are screaming (from the stupid donuts he promised George). Correction-- Clay, internally, as a whole, is screaming.  
So he desperately digs around in his pocket for his key, and balancing the box in one elbow, yanks open the door with whatever little energy he has left.

And, after his morning lectures, after not seeing George for three hours straight, and after walking those two miles, he is never, ever disappointed when he finally gets home.

Clay is overcome with warmth as he quietly clicks the door shut behind him and slowly takes in the, frankly, _adorable_ scene in front of him.

George is sat, criss-cross-applesauce, in the middle of their small sofa, curling around a steaming cup of caramel-smelling coffee. Patches is sprawled relaxedly across his lap, belly up. George is practically drowning in both a plaid blanket and the fabric of the blonde’s favorite purple hoodie, his pale legs completely bare (still wearing Clay’s boxers, probably), but two--or three-- pairs of fuzzy socks encompassing his feet. His eyes look sleepy, but well-rested, and his face is still flushed from his hopefully long slumber. And his hair-- oh _god_ , his hair…

The hood isn’t over George’s head, and Clay thanks the _lord_ for that. His hair is incredibly fluffy, and carelessly messy, as if he hadn’t taken a single look in the mirror, with miscellaneous pieces flopped over his eyes like he’s a scene kid from seventh grade.  
Clay absolutely loves the fact that they’re so comfortable around each other. He guesses that they could walk around the apartment bare naked and they wouldn’t spare the other a second glance. (Unless, they wanted them to, of course..)

He assumes this because he _knows_ it. Because they _have_ before.

But now, his boyfriend is cuddled up on the couch (fully clothed), looking so effortlessly pretty and so very comfortable, and Clay is ready to pass out until the next century.  
Or, maybe, until noon. He’s got class again at 1:30.

George, who had been very focused on some sitcom that was playing on HBOMax, finally notices Clay, who’s just been standing in the entryway, gazing into the living room like an idiot. The brunet’s face lights up with gentle delight, and he reaches over to the remote, one hand turning down the volume of the obnoxious stage-laugh effects that rang out from the TV, the other gently coaxing Patches out of his lap. When he looks back up from the cat and actually processes the look on Clay's face, his expression softens, graciously, with a noticeable hint of concern.

“C’mere,” He says, his voice melodious and comforting after hours of his peers’ squawking.  
Clay should’ve known that George would immediately recognize the utter exhaustion in his eyes.

George knows him inside and out, forwards and backwards. He knows how Clay’s going to react to something, what he prefers in the moment, when he’s going to sneeze. And, as always, the understanding goes both ways. Clay could probably give you a thorough rundown of George’s emotions by taking a quick glance at his current body language.  
Their friends love to jab at them constantly, letting them know just how creepy they are, and ‘I can’t even tell if George _feels_ emotion’, but Clay just likes to think that the two of them are real soulmates. Platonically at first, romantically now. Never faltered, never changes. It’s one of the few constants in Clay’s life, one of the necessary concrete aspects of himself.  
And George has read his eyes. He’s sorted through the stressed bunch of his eyebrows, the slight pained grimace of his lips, the stiff posture of someone who’s ridiculously overwhelmed. No words have been spoken, but George _knows_.

Clay loves him _so_ fucking much.

The blonde sets the donuts on the kitchen table and shrugs off his coat. He carelessly kicks off his shoes, not caring where they end up, and drops his heavy bag onto the wooden floor. Immediately, and quite literally, a weight has been taken off his shoulders. He’s got binders of work to complete, and stacks of study notes to read through, but he doesn’t need to worry about that right now. He left all his stress in the mudroom.

George lifts his arms and widens them, setting his coffee on the side table and creating an entrance to his blanket burrito. Clay already has his eyes almost completely shut when he shuffles over to the couch and crumples into his boy’s soft, comforting embrace. It feels like his little haven, safe from the rapidly shifting outside world, collected in George’s arms, listening intently to his heartbeat.

“Hi bub,” George mumbles into the boy’s ear, combing his fingers through the bush of golden curls atop his head. His voice sounds like rain, and sweet frosting, and a G chord. The moment that his fingers start to massage his scalp, Clay completely relaxes and all but sinks into the brunet’s arms, his nose nestled in the brunet’s neck with a quiet-- partially responsive-- hum.

“I hate school,” Clay whispers, like it’s a secret.  
“I know you do.” George whispers back with a slightly patronizing smile, apparently amused. Clay receives a kiss on the head.  
“I hate lectures.”  
“I know, love.”  
“I’m never reading another word again.”  
“I know.”

A pregnant pause.

“I’m so hard right now.”

“I kn-- wait- I- _CLAY_ \--!” George yells incredulously, voice back at full volume.

Clay doubles over in the boy’s lap, wheezing until he’s quite literally tearing up, eyes watering heavily but void of any more stress. And as much as the blonde can tell that George wants to get up and storm off dramatically and claim his television-show-like exit, his eyes give away the intense fondness that accompanies his lingering stare at the dying man. While he’s staring at the wall opposite of them in faux anger, his hands continue to draw little shapes on the culprit’s shoulder blades.  
After at least thirty seconds of acting upset, and thirty seconds of unending cackling, the blond watches his lips begin to twitch up involuntarily, until he grins and begins to giggle, as if he can’t help himself from joining into the obnoxious laughter.

“Clay, you are an absolute imbecile,” He says through an enormous, helpless smile.

“An absolute _imbecile_ ,” Comes the cruelly mocking response. He knows his British accent is atrocious and sort-of offensive, so that’s exactly why he uses it in conversations with his favorite Brit. George is clearly hurt by this, and they both start laughing harder.

“Whatever, where are the dumb donuts?” George shoves his stupid, wheezing boyfriend onto the floor with an echoing _clunk_.

“OW, you fucking-” Clay cannot breathe. He fears that he’s actually going to bust a lung.

“I SAID, _where are the stupid, dumb donuts_?” Clay CANNOT breathe. He’s either going to bust a lung or their landlord is going to bust them out of their apartment building.

“They’re on t-the-- _wheeze_ \-- the _cOUNTER_ \--” Clay just barely gets out before he starts coughing violently.  
“Kay. Bye.” George kicks the man on the floor in the ribs with his triple-socked foot (gently) and stalks away.

‘ _Oxygen is entirely optional_ ’ Clay decides, curled up on the cold floor, cruelly rejected by his boyfriend, stress from the morning washed away, cackling until aching pain spreads throughout his chest.

And if George finds him two minutes later, dual wielding two glazed donuts, and falls to the floor as well, kissing him until he’s deprived of air again, then it’s nobody’s business but theirs.

_OKAY_ THAT'S IT THAT'S THE FIC

**Author's Note:**

> Am I allowed to write my own comfort fic? Is that conceited? r/AmITheAsshole?  
> I might make this a series. I have so many ideas for fluffy shit and I DO NOT SEE ENOUGH OF IT.  
> Thank you for reading to the end, though, I appreciate it :)
> 
> ALSO FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER IF YOURE COOL @glazeddiorite I LIKE TALKING TO PEOPLE ON THERE  
> (the connection to this fic was unintentional lol)
> 
> SERIOUSLY??? 1k HITS IN A DAY??? I LOVE YALL


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